Coruña Blues

She had walked all over the city of A Coruña, or so it seemed. The population of nearly a quarter of a million was rather daunting because she’d grown up in a small town. You know that old saying, you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. She always preferred to travel anonymously and walk the streets where she was without being forced to ask for directions. That meant she wouldn’t go certain places. It also meant she would be her own mode of transportation whenever possible, avoiding getting confused by bus routes and even trains. If you didn’t know her well, you’d never guess this about her.

The reason for the visit was a concert by a well-known Galician singer, Luis Emilio Batallán (a real classic), but she had overcome her fear of cities, and had come early that morning. She had gone to two museums and two art exhibits before the evening concert. It had been somewhat overkill, trying to fit in so much, but had been worth every minute, every step. 

Fortunately, Lavinia had decided to stay overnight and had fallen, a limp set of muscles and bones, into a very comfortable bed. Melodies from the concert, in the pleasant voice of Batallán, moved like waves on the beach with the poetic name of Riazor, or Santo Amaro, or both. Azure rolling of water from the far western shore, perhaps from where she lived in Maine. That was a possibility.

As often happened, all the day’s activities made for vivid dreams and this time was no exception. She dreamed that the warm evening had brought out the night owls and the streets were jammed with couples and groups looking for late sustenance in the form of good wine and food. It was a safe place to indulge as well as to live. Days as well as nights were usually cool and breezy, with a dash of sea salt and seaweed, logically.

Then it happened: the whole city, even the marina, was plunged into the darkest darkness and the strollers, while not panicking - there was no reason - were disconcerted. If it hadn’t been for the flashlight function on many phones, they’d have had to grope their way home.

Then even the phones stopped giving off light. People scurried off to safety, tripping on the old stones and bumping into one another. Perdón, desculpa, sinto-o, uf! were heard over and over. A few other words were also heard, no need to quote them. Fortunately, nobody fell into the water, nobody drowned, nobody cracked his or her head open on any wall. It was all a big mystery, though, and more than a few were unnerved, as was to be expected.

Then a bit of cold, windy fear came creeping in, along with wild speculation. Could the blackout be some sort of attack? In centuries past, A Coruña had been the target of foreign military forces. That memory had not entirely disappeared. Candles and flashlights shone from quite a few windows, as the population huddled, whispered, and waited.

And that was it. Lavinia awoke, wishing her dream had had some sort of resolution instead of being interrupted because she felt thirsty. She hadn’t gotten up for water, hadn’t bothered turning on a light, had simply rolled over and returned to her sleep, this time without any dreams and nothing resembling a nightmare. That began when she woke up.

It was fairly early, not yet seven, when Lavinia finally surrendered to thirst and walked across the cold tiles to the bathroom sink. Something was strange, she was thinking, something was different. She went out to the balcony - her hotel room was in an old building with one of those glassed-in galerías that the city was famous for - and saw that everything as far as she could see was blue. That wasn’t counting the Atlantic that lapped at both sides of the isthmus where A Coruña was located. That’s always more or less the color of the ocean, of course, because it was the ocean, after all.

She saw this:

The walls of every building - bars, banks, cafés, clothing stores, even little kiosks - were shades of blue. Shades that went from the color of a pale spring sky to teal and ultramarine or even the Payne’s gray that is really a blue-black. Walls were blue, streets of granite and cement were blue, any furniture on terraces was blue. Statues also were blue. Only the trees in the Méndez Núñez gardens were their normal colors, brown bark and green leaves. The shop windows were glazed with the blueness of mid-summer or maybe mid-winter, so intense that it was hard to tell what was on the other side of the glass.

Lavinia was certain she was dreaming, and rubbed her eyes to bring things into focus, back to their normal state. Except no, this wasn’t a dream. Not now. Her dream had been all black, and this wasn’t all black. It was all blue. 

People began to appear in the streets, but they weren’t the ones who had stumbled home and crouched inside bedrooms because all the lights had gone out. They weren’t those people because that had only happened in Lavinia’s dream. Nobody had done any of the things that had been in the scenes from while she had slept. Everybody had been out strolling, eating and drinking, as usual, had gone home and slept, then gotten up, like she had, to a newly-blue city.

What to do? Could they report this? What authorities would be able to handle the condition of blueness that had taken over Coruña? The mayor? The police? The fire department? The Xunta, which was the Galician government? Nobody could agree on who should be charged with handling such a situation, but nevertheless, there were questions.

For example:

Was the blue dangerous? Toxic? Addictive? Did it cause cancer or insanity? Were there noxious fumes they should avoid? (Impossible, if so.)

Was there a difference between one shade and another? In other words, did the color symbolize anything?

Was there a chance the city might slide into the sea and nobody would notice because the colors of both were similar?

Could some people mistake the new blue for ice and slip on it?

How did the trees feel, having been left out of the chromatic transformation?

Would the seagulls get confused and start to fly funny?

If some of the people put on blue outfits, even partially, like pants or coats, would they disappear, melt into the surroundings?

Did the color rub off on people, stain their garments, turn them into smurfs if they got too close? Did it hurt? Did it talk? Was it alive in any way? Did it slither or otherwise move, or was it fixed in the spots where it had been deposited (which meant everywhere)?

Obviously, the possibilities were endless.

Things were promptly thrown into a total state of confusion, or maybe chaos. Some poor coruñeses feared - perhaps unnecessarily - that their words would start to come out the same color, their tongues as well. Those who had always wished they had eyes the color of the sky were hopeful, though. Maybe the process had not been completed and their wish would come true,

And speaking of everywhere, how could anybody figure out where they were, if the signs were all wordless, blued out? Could they find the post office or the market? 

Had blue affected the temperature? Was it wet, like the ocean, which was the same color, was wet?

Did it sing or play an instrument? Would people start to feel depressed, like the style of music that wears the same color? Or would everybody start to think about violets, forget-me-nots, delphiniums, and hydrangeas, which actually can make for happiness, like the bird?

Nobody seems to care if streets and sidewalks are dull grays, blacks, and tans. Why care if they switch to a brighter part of the palette? (There were lots and lots of arguments about this point already starting.) Besides, people can get used to lots of things if forced to, like when the whole mask thing happened during the pandemic and suddenly everybody had half a face and had to learn to smile only with the top half, the eyes. They adapted. It was definitely better than the alternative.

Adaptability was surely something to consider. Hey, said the more optimistic residents, azure might turn out to be fun, even.

Lavinia was still thinking about this. So much so that she was torn between returning to Santiago like she’d planned and staying on in A Coruña to see how things unfolded. She was still kicking herself for having been dreaming about a blackout, with no color at all, instead of staying up and watching the color explosion.

She stayed, naturally. After all, it was a good day for a walk. She chose to go to the Tower of Hercules which is the oldest working lighthouse in the world. Thank you, Romans. The problem was that as she drew closer, she couldn’t find it, even having consulted a map as to its exact location. She recalled the old (very old) Bobby Vinton song, the lines Blue on blue, heartache on heartache going through her head, as she approached the spot where the lighthouse was supposed to be. That’s it! She realized. She couldn’t see it because it was blue on another blue.

Then Lavinia knew she would have to look at it differently. She reached for the rough surface with two hands and moulded the tall structure (180 feet up, 180 feet down) until it was once more visible. Eyes were ineffective, but hands made it real again, that tower with its label, MARTI AUG.SACR C.SEVIVS LVPVS ARCHTECTVS AEMINIENSIS LVSITANVS.EX.VO. (Being from the first century, it had to be Latin.) Her fingers read the letters, and all was well. Walking up in its interior was like walking on steps sculpted from salted sea, like one of those amusement park rides, all colorful and fun, except everything was one shade only.

Back outside, Lavinia was glad she’d walked nearly a mile and a half to visit such an important monument, a miracle of history that Farum Brigantium with its Lusitanian architect, maybe constructed where something Phoenician had been. Her head was full of ancient details and textures. Color was irrelevant. Or was it? She had seen something very special, never before blue, but nonetheless still standing, after all these years. (There goes another song, but she wasn’t crazy, even if the lyrics said so.)

Walking back, she thought it would be hard to leave, too soon to depart. She had to stay, if only just a bit longer. There might be a revolution in store for the city, an English pirate ship might appear, different from the sort battled by María Pita - if A Coruña had been blued overnight, anything could happen. Shades of Sir John Moore! Napoleon might rise up and send his minions, then it really could get iffy in the port. Blue wasn’t dangerous, not in the least. It was people who caused damage to monuments and the environment.

What was she thinking? She was only one person, yet she thought what had happened had happened for a reason. She would remain a bit longer in the cidade brigantina and watch. After all, it - all of it - was now her favorite color.

Nearing her hotel, Lavinia began paying more attention to the people around her who were still dazed, still sorting things out or trying too. Perfectly normal. Suddenly, and briefly, something flashed across the street where only feet, not vehicles, were allowed. Except the something had no feet to its flash. From mid-thigh, there was nothing but a glint, a different shade of cerulean, a lighter shade of pale (oh no, not another song) moving with assertion, beckoning. Two glints, actually, like feet demanding attention.

It was a figure of sorts, rather dashing - not her term, that was a bit over the top - armed only with a wink and a gleaming eye. Was it wearing a cape? People didn’t wear those much now. As the speculation started, she shook her head, refusing to be drawn into what the people around her were doing, trying to figure it all out. Let it be, thought Lavinia, almost hating herself for landing on another tune. Enjoy the view, just enjoy it.

There was only one problem. Eventually she would have to leave, have to return to her research, and after that, she’d have to return home to where the blue stubbornly remained in the sky and the ocean. Stubborn, and boring, that land of the pointed firs, Maine. There was only one recourse, and she made use of it. 

That’s how Lavinia Rivers, pulling on a slender thread (blue, if there was ever any doubt that it might be some other color) and also using her fingernails (it didn’t matter, they weren’t manicured), began to gather every bit of azure she could. In case you’re wondering, she wasn’t some yankee trying to make off with the natural resources of A Coruña, because anything that was removed was immediately restored to its former - former? - shade and nobody could tell the difference. It regenerated, so nothing was stolen or lost. That’s why she thought it wouldn’t hurt to do what she was doing.

Once back in her hotel, she carefully placed her harvest in her small suitcase and closed it, knowing what would happen. It would accompany her back to Santiago (if it were raining, that wouldn’t matter) and then to Maine. It would safely cross from one Atlantic shore to the other. It would resist the passing of time, like the lighthouse of A Coruña a brigantina. It would be the best souvenir ever.

What Lavinia didn’t know:

1. That the color, once freed from its confinement, would expand and become world. Would walk with her like a pair of elegant blue boots.

1. Whether or not it had all been a dream. Which, of course, doesn’t matter in the least.